“What are you and that devil Asif talking about?” Sir Henry asked.
“Lord Foye is correct,” she said, turning to her uncle. “It is Nazim Pasha.”
Foye watched Anthony Lucey cross the now cleared ballroom floor to greet the pasha. The pasha wore a diamond-encrusted sword at his side and a pair of enameled, gem-encrusted pistols tucked into the sash around his waist. His retinue was armed with a less decorative and far more utilitarian assortment of pistols and muskets. The crowd melted away around him and before long, even the two Godards had a view of Nazim Pasha and his men, with Anthony Lucey walking at his side. Foye glanced at Miss Godard. “Is this usual?” he asked in a low voice. “For a pasha to appear among so many infidels?”
She shook her head. “No. But he and Godard got on quite well when they met before, and Mr. Lucey has had several years’ acquaintance with him. Perhaps he’s curious about us.”
Nazim Pasha came to a stop in front of Sir Henry, bowed, and greeted him in perfect French. Sir Henry returned the greeting in kind.
In the exchange that followed, one thing became perfectly clear to Foye: Nazim Pasha was quite taken with Miss Godard.
He had been jealous of Lieutenant Russell. The soldier was young and handsome and sickeningly in love but, ultimately, no real threat. Miss Godard had no interest in him. The pasha was another matter altogether. He was no puppy, for one thing. Here was a man for whom, by reputation at least, robbery, fraud, murder, and even rape were merely the means by which he obtained whatever it was he desired. Without compunction or remorse.
If Nazim Pasha acted on his attraction to Miss Godard, Foye was quite certain she would vanish, never to be seen again.
He was surprised to discover he had a very personal intention to see that did not happen.
Chapter Nine
About four o’clock in the morning. Lord Foye’s accommodations in Buyukdere. Specifically, Foye’s bedchamber. Foye was wide awake.
His bedroom was pitch dark and silent. Yet he could not sleep. Foye lay in bed twitchy with the urge to physically exhaust himself. Ever since he’d kissed Sabine Godard, he’d been on edge and uneasy in himself. He’d had no business allowing that to happen. None. But it had, and he wasn’t precisely sorry.
He knew he’d never get back to sleep. He called for his servant Barton, who acted as his valet, butler, footman, and general factotum, and after dressing ate a quick breakfast and gulped down coffee.
He headed for the center of Buyukdere. In addition to his unsettled state as regarded Miss Godard, his sleep bad been disturbed these past nights by dreams of her that were by turn too explicit for his comfort or else involved him saving her from some deadly peril, after which she would melt in his arms and confess her undying love and gratitude. Spiritually and physically.
Last night, he’d had both sorts of dreams. There was as well the fact that he was not the only man to have noticed Nazim Pasha’s attentions to her and interpreted them as sexual in nature. When the subject had been broached—he didn’t even recall who had first brought it up—the consensus had been one of concern for her safety. Miss Godard was universally liked. Nevertheless, the pasha’s admiration had been duly noted. There had been talk. Nothing to her detriment so far. She was too far from being a flirt for anyone to entertain the notion of her having, somehow, encouraged the pasha’s interest.
Foye continued walking, his hands clenched behind his back and his head down as he increased his stride. A long, hard walk, he hoped, would clear his mind. His vague intention was to see the sun rise and then, whenever it happened that he discharged the nervous energy that filled him, to return home and plan the remainder of his day. He wondered if he ought to leave Constantinople and avoid entirely his increasing infatuation with Sabine Godard. It would not do to entangle himself and possibly embroil her in scandal.
When he arrived in the village square with the sky still more dark than light, he knew if he returned home, he’d only need to walk out again. He headed for the strand. Not only would a walk along the Bosporus be pleasant, it would also allow him to extend his exercise in whatever direction he so decided: south in the general direction of Constantinople or in the opposite direction toward the Black Sea.
But for Lieutenant Russell’s silent suspicion, the incident between him and Miss Godard at Lucey’s ball had gone unnoticed. Aside from some hilarity over the toppling soldiers, and even one or two amusing non-actions, no one so much as mentioned that Foye and Miss Godard had been caught up in the mayhem.
But he could not forget the pure terror in her eyes when he’d caught her and held her to prevent her railing. She might have been injured, for God’s sake, if he’d done nothing. Ten steps slower or faster and they’d have avoided the entire debacle. He’d never have taken her anywhere alone nor lost his head. Nor discovered that Sabine Godard kissed like an angel. Nor would he have seen her expression when she claimed to find his face arresting. As if she found that a fine thing for his face to be. And he believed her.
It was also the case, he’d learned, that more than a few residents of Buyukdere had thought Sir Henry had boasted of his friendship with the pasha. The man’s arrival at the gathering, no more the personal conversational exchange between the two, put that lie to rest. There was yet more talk about Sir Henry when, the day after the ball, Nazim Pasha had called on them privately and made it known he had renewed his invitation for them to visit him in Kilis. He had also presented both of them with outrageously lavish gifts.
To Sir Henry, the pasha had given a kaftan embroidered with gold and silver thread, seed pearls, and diamonds, too. To Miss Godard he had given ivory hair combs topped with gold and inlaid with matching rubies, three of them the size of Foye’s fingernail, which detail he knew because Sir Henry had proudly displayed both their gifts to anyone who called. Yes, he had called. At one of the rare times when he knew she would not be at home. His express purpose had been to tell Sir Henry of Crosshaven’s infamy, to make him understand that she was innocent in the matter. It was the least he could do for her, and he had done so. That obligation was now discharged in full. He learned a great deal more, too, about the Godards and the pasha.
Her gift was not just the hair combs, extravagant all by themselves, but also a matching bracelet and brooch. From anyone else, such a gift was worse than inappropriate. From the pasha? Most excused the extravagance. The pasha was rich. He’d made other such gifts to various members of the various diplomats in Buyukdere and Pera. The rubies were of magnificent quality. Too personal, Foye felt. He’d taken one look at those gemstones, so exquisitely set, and known them for the sort of gift a man makes of a woman with whom he hoped to be intimate.
He reached the strand and set out in a southerly direction, toward Constantinople, though he did not think he would walk quite as far as that since he would have to walk the twelve miles back, too. Buyukdere Castle was a possible destination. Some six miles distant, it was built at the edge of the Bosporus with a sister fortress on the other side of the waterway. The two castles had been constructed for the sole purpose of choking off access to the Black Sea. There began and ended everything he knew about the castle.
He considered returning home, but he was too full of nervous energy, with too much on his mind. He would walk to the castle, he decided. Why not? No one expected him anywhere, and his valet, Barton, was used to his long and solitary excursions. He had a few paras in his pocket, a small denomination coin of the local currency; enough for a decent luncheon. He set out with the sun just barely over the horizon.
The trek took him less than two hours, heading south in the direction of Constantinople and staying more or less along the Bosporus. Another advantage to his size. With his longer stride, he covered more distance than a man of average height. This morning his body, as it did in general, relished being pushed. The walk itself was not difficult at all, but he moved as quickly as he could to put himself past a comfortable walk. He succeeded in putting Miss Godard out of his mind precisely
twice.
The entrance to the castle was on the water’s edge. The structure was built on a hill overlooking the Bosporus and was in geometry a misshapen rectangle with three massive crenellated towers. In construction, the castle was very much like any number of English castles. The decorative stamp of the Byzantines clung to parts of the interior in the portions of carved marble edifice that must have at one time entirely covered the stones. A solitary column stood near a wall covered with the remnants of a typically Byzantine pattern carved in the marble facing.
There still remained some cannons, though many were rusted and in poor repair. No one would be firing across the Bosporus from here. He spent some time examining them and peering across the strait to what remained of the sister castle. A canny location, at once defensive and yet capable of preventing access to the sea or Constantinople. Since the barbican wall was in good repair, he decided to walk along the perimeter and enjoy the view of the water. He headed first toward the tower that overlooked the water.
Seabirds circled overhead, calling out for someone to provide them a ration of fish. Alas, he had none to give them. A native ship sailed slowly toward Constantinople. As he walked the ledge, he caught a glimpse of someone sitting near the first tower that was his destination. Some Turk, perhaps, mulling over his country’s history and contemplating what had been a glorious past. Foye was not one of those men who thought the Porte could protect its territorial reach much longer. Buyukdere Castle would not be in such a state of disrepair otherwise.
He continued walking, and before long it was plain that his Turkish contemplator was, in fact, a woman. And since no Turkish woman would be permitted here by herself, she must be European. Another few steps and he recognized the golden hair visible from beneath her hat.
Sabine Godard.
Chapter Ten
Buyukdere Castle, May 23, 1811
About half past six in the morning. The site of a very great coincidence. Or perhaps just fate.
“Miss Godard?”
Sabine started when she heard her name. She turned away from her sketch, shading her eyes to see who it was.
Lord Foye was instantly recognizable. She didn’t know anyone else that tall. Her pulse sped up as he continued toward her. Sabine kept her place at one of the crenellated portions of the castle wall. Until Lord Foye had called out, she’d been bent over a sketch pad set atop the stone, pencil in hand. As she straightened, the toe of her shoe hit the leather case at her feet. It was open to show more paper and her collection of pencils, charcoals, chalks, and gum rubbers.
Lord Foye stopped about a yard distant from her and snatched off his hat. He shook his head to resettle his curls. Her heart sped up even though she knew they would not kiss again. He’d told her nothing would come of it, and so far he’d been true to his word. He smiled. “It is you, Miss Godard. I wasn’t certain at first.”
She knew she ought to reply, Yes, my lord. It is I. Or perhaps, Good morning, my lord. But she didn’t because this was the third time her awareness of him had surged out of proportion to what was proper. The truth was she found him attractive, from the jumbled line of his cheeks to the hook of his nose. Even though nothing could ever come of her feelings for him, as he had so appropriately warned her.
She put a hand on her paper to keep the breeze from blowing away her work while she was distracted. This morning Lord Foye wore a burgundy waistcoat striped with a gray satin that matched his dove breeches. His charcoal coat fit his narrow waist and fell straight over a flat belly. Sabine wasn’t used to noticing a man with such detail, or rather, she wasn’t used to having the details affect her this way. Still, they could be friends. That would be enough.
Foye bowed to her and then said, “Good morning.”
She had to lift her chin in order to look into his face, and as she did, she remembered in tortuous detail the sensation of his arms around her, holding her. His mouth on her, so soft and gentle. Her first and only kiss. The moment their eyes met, her stomach took flight, and she had to press her hand down hard on her sketchbook to maintain a sense that she remained connected to the ground. One heard and read of such feelings, of women who claimed to be transported at the sight of one certain man, but she’d thought the reaction was exaggeration, a mere fancy of an overactive imagination, and that even if it were true, such a thing would never happen to her. And here she stood, staring at Lord Foye, wondering if her legs would hold her.
For her soul, she could not decide if he seemed glad to have come across her or if he was annoyed. She tucked her pencil behind her ear and summoned her self-control. Nothing would come of this, they were both determined, and she was dashed if she made a fool of herself.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said. This meeting was no different than any other she might have with a gentleman of her acquaintance. She made an awkward curtsey in his direction since she was keeping her hand on her sketch. After all, he was Lord Foye. The Marquess of Foye. A man so far above her in society, she shouldn’t be feeling anything about him at all. She put away her memory of their kiss in a faraway place to be brought out and remembered at some other time. “What brings you here so early in the day?”
He kept the distance between them, and Sabine was certain that any moment he would nod and take his leave. “Mr. Lucey recommended that I tour Buyukdere Castle. So here I am. Sightseeing.” He pointed to the water with a grin she felt from head to toe. “Calculating what it would take to fire a cannon across the water into Asiatic Turkey.”
They were alone here. Completely alone, and she wasn’t afraid or worried he might make an improper advance. Her nerves were for an entirely different reason. “Rumeli Hisari,” she said.
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“The natives call this Rumeli Hisari, the Roman Fortress.” She spoke too quickly. But, my God, she was actually trembling. Such a foolish woman she was. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. She’d never been nervous around any of the other gentlemen she’d met in her life. “I don’t know why they call it that.” She scraped a strand of hair away from her face. She was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. And Foye was too polite to interrupt her. “It was built by Faith Mahomet the Conqueror, beginning in 1451. Not very Roman I should say. By then even Caesar Augustus was long buried. Have you seen the cannons?” She pointed to the far side of the castle to a tower away from the water. “Over there is the gunpowder tower.”
He didn’t look in the direction she pointed. He just cleared his throat and pressed the rim of his hat between his long fingers. “You are a veritable font of information, Miss Godard. As ever.”
She gazed at him, speechless with the horror of realizing she wasn’t just feeling a fool but was indeed making a fool of herself. Another strand of hair came free of her confining hat and blew across her cheek. She ignored it. “I can’t help it, you know.”
“Can’t help what?”
“I was raised by Godard.” She shrugged and kept her ground when he came nearer. As near as any two people might stand when they are acquainted. He meant nothing by this, and yet she stared at his mouth and wondered what it would be like if he were to kiss her again. “Facts stay with me. I did not know when I was growing up that it was unusual for a girl to be educated as I was. But so I was, and now I am unable to forget a fact I have heard.” Silly, ridiculous words tripped from her mouth. “I was eighteen before I learned we women are expected to hide what knowledge we have.” She raised her hand and waved it just above her head. “All these facts I have here. They are trapped now. Languages and chronologies of history, calculus, and geometry. Sometimes I forget I ought to dissemble, and something unfortunate spills out.” She smiled at him. “Have you not noticed that about me?”
He blinked. “Calculus?”
Well, then. She’d done enough damage already that more could hardly make a difference. Her intellectual oddities were hardly a secret from him. “Godard and I made a thorough study of Newton’s Principia.”
“And?�
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He was never going to kiss her again. They were safe. She was safe. The knowledge calmed her. While her feelings were real enough, her hopes were not, and in that she could take a measure of relief. Lord Foye was far too polite to let on he thought her silly. He would preserve her dignity.
“We muddled along, Godard and I,” she said. Her nerves settled, and that made it easier to marshal her thoughts. “I am afraid I disappointed him. He had hopes for me, as I excelled at arithmetic.”
“Did you?”
She nodded. “It happens I am not very good at mathematics.”
Foye smiled, and her heart gave a twist. Madness! This was madness to find him so attractive. “Your uncle has given you a better education than most boys of your station in life.”
“Oh, yes, my lord.”
He gave her a look. “You may call me Foye, if you like.” He gestured. “I was going to walk the perimeter of the castle.” For a moment, he stared down at his hat. “Would you care to put your mountain of facts to use and be my guide?”
She set a hand to the back of her head and looked into his face as if there she would see the motive for the request. She saw nothing there but his blue, blue eyes, the uneven features of his face, and the curls around his forehead. At last at a loss to think why he’d asked, other than that he really did want the benefit of her knowledge, she said, “If you like.”
“I would,” he said.
She bent to her art case and put away her gum rubber, keeping one hand on her sketch pad against the breeze coming off the water. Her pencil must have rolled off the surface because she didn’t see it on her sketch pad.
“Allow me,” Foye said. She didn’t know he’d come close until he placed his much larger hand on her sketch. She knew him well enough now that his being so near didn’t bother her in the least, aside from the butterflies in her stomach, that is.
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